Prologue

Major Larry Best pushed open the door to Dogpatch Inn, the name for the Army Air Corps mess hall, and stepped out into the warm tropical night. A light breeze swept over Tinian, carrying the rich earthy smells of palm trees overlaid by a faint scent of salt and rot, an ever-present reminder of the South Pacific’s embrace. On other occasions, this might have had a tranquilizing effect, but not tonight.

Larry stood motionless on the wooden decking as others hurried past him. He thought about the earlier briefing, how the Old Man had told them the bomb they were carrying to Japan had the power of twenty thousand tons of TNT. Even though the CO never mentioned the source of this unthinkable power, Larry suspected what it was. Several days ago he had said as much to Commander John Morris, their navy weaponeer. There had been no reply, but the look in the older man’s eyes told Larry he was right.

So, what was a Christian to make of this? He had felt no qualms about joining ROTC in college or volunteering for the Army Air Corps. He had measured these acts against his faith and decided it was right to defend his country against the brutal aggression of Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, and Imperial Japan. Did the destructiveness of the weapon make a difference? The air corps’ B-29s had already inflicted horrific casualties by fire-bombing Tokyo and other major Japanese cities.

He ran a hand through his thick black hair, which, as usual, was a mess with his cowlick standing up in back. The door at his back banged again.

“Forget your way back to the hut?” a familiar voice said, as Captain Dennis Roundtree joined him.

“No, Captain. Did you sleep through your classes when they covered respect for superiors?”

“No, sir. I’m always respectful.” He threw off a casual salute as if to prove his point.

Larry returned it. “I see. You ready to go?”

Dennis took his time answering, toeing the bare wood planks with his shoes. “This is what we signed up for, sir. The Old Man says go — so we go.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

Larry stepped down onto the hard-packed coral, his copilot at his side. “Good. Then let’s get on with it.”

They walked in silence through the pools of light near the clustered buildings. They changed into their coverall flight suits at the hut and grabbed their flight gear. What this was varied by crew member. Larry picked up a Zane Grey novel while his copilot grabbed a Life and a Stars and Stripes. Outside, they jumped into the waiting jeep. After picking up Commander Morris and his assistant, Lieutenant (jg) Sam Owens, the driver roared off for the flight line.

Larry tried to maintain his composure as the jeep’s headlights illuminated objects moments before they were left behind in coral dust. He hoped the driver wouldn’t end their mission by piling up on the way to the plane. But as the aircraft CO, he felt he couldn’t order the man to slow down. Somehow this didn’t mesh with his image of a bomber pilot.

He saw the bright glow long before they got there. The jeep made a final skidding turn and roared toward the waiting B-29. Larry gaped at the sight. He should have expected it, he knew, but he still was surprised. A long line of spotlights bathed his bomber like an insect a moment before annihilation in a flame. The name, Little Brown Jug, stood out in black block letters against the brilliant silver nose. The large windows above looked black in contrast.

His aircraft hadn’t had a name until recently. He had considered and rejected many possibilities. He admired the names some of the other pilots had chosen: The Great Artiste, Top Secret, and Bock’s Car, for example. He had considered Very Best but had finally decided to borrow the name of the popular Glenn Miller song because of what it meant to his wife, Elizabeth. Well, it appeared the name would go down in history for other than musical reasons, assuming their mission was successful. Army photographers swarmed around the bomber, taking pictures from every conceivable angle. Several motion picture cameras stood off to the side on their heavy tripods as the operators waited for the crew to arrive.

“Would you look at the brass!” Dennis shouted from the back to make himself heard over the roar of the jeep.

“This isn’t a milk run, Captain,” Larry replied.

“I know, but ...”

The driver brought the jeep to a sliding stop.

Larry turned his head. “Commander, are you and Sam ready for the beauty pageant?”

“I’d as soon skip it,” the navy weaponeer replied. “But, if we must...”

“I believe this is a command performance.”

The four officers got out and joined the rest of the crew. For the next twenty minutes they formed lines in front of their aircraft, and the flashbulbs popped. Larry began to wonder if this would force a delay, but finally it was over. The crew boarded the Little Brown Jug and began their preflight checks. Before starting his tasks, Larry obliged the photographers by waving to them from the open cockpit window.

He and Dennis made their rounds outside, checking the engines for leaking oil or hydraulic fluid and to make sure all the instrument covers and pins had been removed. Larry hadn’t expected to find anything wrong, and he didn’t. After all, the 509th had the best maintenance crews in the air corps. They better not find anything wrong.

Larry boarded the aircraft and hurried forward. He paused at Staff Sergeant Herb Wilson’s station.

“Think this crate can make it to Japan and back?”

The flight engineer grinned. “Bet my life on it, sir.”

“That’s what I want to hear. Has the ground crew run the props through?” He knew the answer but had to ask it anyway. The B-29’s Wright Cyclone engines sometimes collected oil in the bottom cylinders. Cranking such an engine usually broke it.

The older man didn’t seem to mind the question. “Yes, sir. All four were pulled through twelve blades.”

Larry nodded. If the ground crew could pull the engines through three revolutions, there was no problem with pooled oil. He continued forward and climbed into the left-hand seat. He was grateful for the crew he had trained with for over a year. They truly were the best in the air corps.

He switched on the intercom and keyed his mike “Let’s crank ’em up. Sergeant Wilson — start number three.”

“Yes, sir. Starting three.”

Dennis turned to look out his window. “Three’s turning. Four blades ... eight ... twelve ... ignition!”

The whine of the starter was replaced by the powerful rumble of the 2,200-horsepower engine. Larry watched the oil pressure come up. The fuel pressure was steady. No problems so far.

“Starting four,” Herb announced.

After it was running, Larry looked out his window at number one. After three revolutions, fire shot out of the short exhaust stacks on the outboard engine. Soon all four were running as smoothly as high-performance eighteen-cylinder engines can run. Larry checked the luminous dial on his watch. It was now 2:30 A.M. The whole procedure had taken a little over a half hour after beginning the preflight check. Not bad, he thought. Hope the rest of the mission goes this smoothly.

Larry set the brakes and signaled for the chocks to be removed. Waving to the observers, he released the brakes and began taxiing toward the southwest end of the runway. The heavy Superfortress jounced over the uneven coral taxiway, following the same path three weather planes had taken over an hour ago. Once out of the floodlights’ glare, the warm tropical night took over. Except for their landing lights, it was pitch black.

Larry made the final turn and applied the brakes to halt the heavy bomber. He felt his pulse quicken as tension began to take its toll. They were heavy — very heavy. The Little Brown Jug was carrying seven thousand gallons of high-octane gasoline and a single nine-thousand-pound bomb. The B-29 shuddered as Larry ran the engines up. All the gauges looked good.

“How’s it look, Herb?”

“Smooth as silk, Major. Couldn’t be any better.”

“Roger.” He glanced at his watch. It was 2:50 A.M. Now all he had to do was get his overweight Superfortress airborne. This was no insignificant task, as the blackened hulks on Tinian testified. He switched the radio to the tower frequency.

“Victor Seven Five to North Tinian tower. Ready for takeoff on runway Able.”

“Victor Seven Five. Victor Seven Five. Cleared for takeoff.”

The air was stifling in the cockpit as the lone bomber stood poised on the longest runway in existence, ten thousand feet of graded coral. Their landing lights carried less than half the length of the strip, runway lights marking the rest. Where these ended, almost two miles away, was the tropical South Pacific, ready to receive them if the B-29 could not carry aloft its enormous overload. Just two miles to get a sixty-five-ton plane airborne, a plane crammed with gasoline and the heaviest bomb ever made. Larry knew they could make it, with some to spare, unless they lost an engine. But that was unpredictable.

“You ready?” Larry asked.

Dennis wiped his hands on his flight suit. His forced grin looked positively sepulchral in the purple-green glow from the instrument panel. “Roger.”

Larry locked the brakes and pushed the throttles all the way forward. The Little Brown Jug shook as the engines roared.

“You’ve got max power,” Herb announced over the intercom. “Everything looks fine.”

Larry ran a hand over his lean face, trying to massage away the accumulation of tension. He looked beyond their landing lights where the runway lights seemed to come together and released the brakes. The overloaded plane started rolling but not as rapidly as on previous missions. It seemed to crawl down the runway instead of surging forward. But all too soon, the snail’s pace became the thunderous lurching of a juggernaut. A tight knot formed in Larry’s stomach as the runway end markers raced toward them in a mad rush. He resisted the temptation to pull back prematurely on the yoke. He stole a glance at the air speed indicator as the jiggling needle crept molasses-like toward their liftoff speed. The lump in his stomach turned to ice: only five knots to go, but they were nearly out of runway. Then the needle hit the magic number. Larry pulled back smoothly on the yoke. The bomber hesitated for a heart-stopping moment then started its ponderous rotation. The huge wheels left earth, and Tinian surrendered to the Pacific at the same moment.

Larry shifted his full attention to the plane’s instruments as the B-29 staggered into the featureless blackness. There were no reliable references except those vital gauges. Dennis reached over and activated the landing gear. The welcome whine of the wheels coming up was barely audible over the thundering of the engines. Larry leveled out and let the struggling plane pick up air speed.

It took several tries before he got his voice to work. “That’s about as close as I ever want to come.”

Dennis cleared his throat as he squirmed in his seat. “We earned our flight pay on that one,” he said with a forced grin. He glanced at his watch. “I make the takeoff time oh-two-fifty-seven,” he said as he made an entry in the flight log.

Larry trimmed the aircraft for a slow climb and made a leisurely turn to 338 degrees, their heading for Saipan. Two minutes later he heard the Tinian tower clear two more B-29s for takeoff. One carried scientific instruments to measure the bomb’s explosive power while the other would provide photographic coverage, from what everyone hoped would be a safe distance. Both aircraft carried atomic scientists and photographers in addition to the regular crews.

They were approaching forty-five-hundred feet when Larry felt a light tap on the shoulder. He jumped as his concentration broke. He turned and saw John Morris. If the commander had been worried about the takeoff, he didn’t show it. But then, Larry had never seen the naval officer perturbed. He was the most professional and single-minded man he had ever met.

Now John’s job would start. A tall officer stood behind him, his pinched, narrow face echoing his spare build. Lieutenant (jg) Sam Owens lacked the composure of his boss. The young man was still clearly nervous from his recent scare. Larry smiled in spite of the situation.

“May we start now?” John asked in a quiet voice.

“Anytime you’re ready. We’ll try and keep her steady for you. Should be fairly smooth until we get near the Empire.”

John nodded a silent thanks and walked back to the forward bomb bay, ushering Sam before him.

*      *      *

Sam flipped on the bomb-bay lights and rigged the portable worklights while the weaponeer started removing the access covers from the huge casing of the “Little Boy.” John’s blue eyes crinkled behind his large, horn-rimmed glasses as he prepared the bomb’s interior. He winced once and withdrew a bleeding thumb, cut on one of the sharp, smoothly machined parts. He looked at the nick briefly then resumed the dismantling, working by feel most of the time.

He removed a final bolt and slid the part to one side. He looked at Sam’s tension-drained face for a moment then got to his feet, ignoring the pain in his joints. He walked to the large bucket lashed to the forward bulkhead of the bomb bay and removed the lid. Inside were the beautifully machined rings of plutonium. He donned his gloves and carefully picked up the rings and struggled with them over to the bomb. He inserted them quickly, but with infinite care, into the receptacle. He returned to the bucket and removed the smaller, but still hefty, slug and hurried to the bomb’s tail section. He squinted down the “gun barrel” and slipped the slug inside, following it with the explosive charge. Done, he stood back and looked at the partially armed bomb.

Sam’s relief was clearly visible.

John began the reassembly process with care as his assistant set up the test equipment for wiring the device. Finally John stood back and wiped his hands on his clean overalls, smudging them with dark streaks of graphite lubricant.

“Well, Sam,” he said. “Ready to hook it up?”

“Yes, sir.”

John reached into the casing for the first cable set and started making the connections. He worked slowly, taking care not to short any wires. He reached for the test prods after each connection was made, making sure the wiring was correct before proceeding.

Finally it was done. John stood painfully and looked at the black box perched on the bomb. Every test light was green. The bomb, if it were dropped then, would detonate — according to the instruments.

Sam broke the silence. “Will it work?”

John paused before answering. “That is the question of the day,” he said slowly. “The scientists say it will. The black box says it’s wired correctly. If each of the arming devices works, if the charge goes off, if the theory is right....”

“The one in New Mexico went off.”

John smiled at the young man’s obvious uneasiness. “That one was carefully assembled, tested, and set off on top of a tower. They had the finest experts in the world standing by and plenty of room to work in.” He swept his hand around the crowded bomb bay. The plane lurched as it hit an air pocket.

The commander glanced at his watch and turned toward the cockpit. “Come on. We’re done here.”

*      *      *

Larry scanned the vast panorama ahead of them. The visibility was excellent, the sky a deep blue relieved here and there by fleecy, white clouds. The early morning sun streamed through the right-hand cockpit windows, a minor distraction to him but more of a bother to Dennis.

Larry yawned. It was 7:42, and they were already almost five hours into the mission, steady on a course of 332 degrees. They had rendezvoused with the other two B-29s almost two hours ago over Iwo Jima. For now, everything was routine.

The excitement of the takeoff had long since worn off. This might be a historic mission, but getting to the target was one monotonous ride. And the drone of the engines did bring on drowsiness.

Larry rubbed his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. It was strong and hot, and it provided the jolt it was supposed to. He heard a sound and turned to see the navy weaponeers walking onto the flight deck.

“John. Steady enough for you back there?”

“No complaints. We’re all done. The bomb is assembled, wired, and tested. As far as I can tell, we’re ready.”

Larry looked at the graying commander, wondering if he would continue. The man seemed uneasy.

“I see. Anything else?”

“That’s about it. The rest is up to you, Major.”

Larry nodded. “Appreciate the work you and Sam did down there. A bomb bay isn’t the best workshop in the world.”

John snorted. “You can say that again. Still, it was adequate.”

“Good. We formed up with the instrument and photo planes over Iwo, and the weather planes report fair visibility over the primary.” He paused. “So, it looks like it’s on.”

John nodded. “Yes,” he said.

“OK. Why don’t you and Sam try to find a comfortable spot and get some rest. We’re about an hour and a half from the IP. Sergeant Wilson has sandwiches and coffee.”

“Thanks. Don’t feel like eating, but I think I’ll try some coffee.”

He and Sam sprawled on the flight deck behind the pilots. Sam picked halfheartedly at a sandwich while John sipped at his coffee. The flight deck tilted slightly and the roar of the engines increased as the Little Brown Jug began its slow climb to thirty thousand feet. Larry scanned the instrument panel. Everything was as it should be. The B-29 droned into the gathering morning with its cargo of death.

An hour later, Larry looked down on the islands off Honshu. They looked beautiful and peaceful from thirty thousand feet — toylike — unreal. Larry found it hard to believe, truly believe, that this was all real, that there were people down there, people who would shortly witness the harsh dawning of the atomic age.

He felt no compunction about dropping the bomb, however. This war would only end when Japan’s leaders decided the price of continuing was too high. Despite the horrific casualties and destruction to date, the Imperial government had not yet come to that conclusion. And Larry had seen the casualty forecasts for operations Olympic and Coronet, the invasion of the Japanese home islands: 750 thousand American casualties and 250 thousand American deaths and several times as many for the Japanese. If their mission could prevent that....

He craned his neck forward as the great bomber crawled inexorably toward Honshu. Up ahead it was becoming hazy, and large white clouds were beginning to form.

“That doesn’t look so good.”

Dennis looked up from the instruments. “No, it doesn’t. It’s clouded up since the weather ship flew over. Maybe that will help with the flak and fighters.”

Larry frowned and looked over at his copilot. “Lot of good that’ll do us if we can’t see the target.”

He turned toward the east then brought the bomber around in a wide, left-hand turn, circling the immense Tokyo Bay. Larry locked out all external thoughts as he responded to the bombardier’s directions. Their course settled on 260 degrees — almost due west. Ahead lay the IP, the initial point from which no deviation from the bomb run could be made. They droned on over a patchwork quilt of brown, black, and green, with Tokyo Bay off to their left.

“That’s it,” said Major Cliff Haynes over the intercom.” I just lost sight of the IP. I have a good radar picture, but we have to bomb visually.”

“Yeah, I know,” Larry snapped. He frowned and rubbed his bristly chin as he looked down at the obscuring clouds. “What do you recommend?”

“Let’s try again. There are plenty of holes in the clouds. Maybe the IP will be clear on the next pass.”

“Roger. The brass said Tokyo if at all possible, and we’ve got enough fuel.”

He well remembered that part of the briefing. Kill the fanatics who refused to give up, and the war would be over, or so they hoped. Although Osaka and Nagoya were their alternates, the desired target was Tokyo. Larry had the distinct impression that the visual rule could be bent, if not broken, as long as the bomb hit the designated target. But did he dare do it?

He waited out the next run with growing apprehension. Sam Owens went forward and peered into the bombardier’s radar scope. Larry considered ordering him back but decided Cliff could take care of himself. The bombardier’s eye was glued to the eyepiece of his Norden bombsight as he made tiny corrections.

“Come on ... come on,” Cliff muttered. Then came a pungent oath. “Lost it again!” He looked around. “I say we try one more time. I had it right until the last moment. There are still holes in the clouds.”

“OK. Once more, then we go to Nagoya.”

Again he brought the B-29 around for another run. So far there had been no flak and no fighters. Apparently the Japanese didn’t consider a single bomber much of a threat. Well, that was about to change. Soon they were again on a course of 260 degrees.

Cliff turned around. “I can see the IP.”

Larry peered through the cockpit greenhouse windows. “Are you sure? There’s a thin cloud layer up ahead.”

“I know, but I can see through it. See? There’s the river, and that’s the bridge.”

Larry turned to Dennis. “You see it?”

The copilot leaned forward as if this would improve his vision. “Roger. I see it.” He pointed.

Larry checked again. It was like looking through a sheer curtain. The IP wasn’t all that easy to identify even in perfect weather because Tokyo had many rivers and even more bridges. But there it was. He was almost positive. “Concur. Can you see the aiming point?” This was three minutes beyond the IP, and Larry couldn’t make it out.

“Not yet,” Cliff admitted. “But I will before we release.”

“Roger. See that you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Several minutes later the bombardier assumed his usual hunched-over position, eye buried in his beloved bombsight. “I have the IP.”

Larry breathed a sigh of relief. The seconds ticked off slowly as they flew over the city. With ninety seconds to go, he took his hands away from the controls. “It’s all yours.”

Cliff made no reply, but from that point the corrections he entered into the bombsight directed the bomber’s autopilot. Sixty seconds before bomb release, he flicked a toggle switch that activated a high-pitched radio tone.

“How does it look?” Larry asked. It was difficult to positively identify objects on the ground, but he knew that Cliff had a better picture in the bombsight.

There was a slight pause. “We’re on target.”

Well, it’s on automatic now, Larry thought, as he waited to regain control of the plane.

At the end of the sixty seconds, the radio tone ceased, the pneumatic bomb-bay doors whooshed open and the “Little Boy” tumbled out.

“Bomb’s away!” Cliff shouted.

The B-29’s nose leaped up sharply in response to the loss of nine thousand pounds of dead weight. Larry pushed forward on the yoke. “Goggles, everyone!”

He slipped his on and found he couldn’t see the instrument panel. Near panic gripped him until he realized they would be heading away when the bomb went off. He pushed the goggles up and found that Dennis had his up as well.

Larry cranked the bomber into a diving 155-degree right turn designed to carry them away from the bomb’s blast at full throttle. He half-heard the coded radio message in his earphones indicating that the three instrument packages had been dropped and the parachutes had deployed. The air pockets pounded them painfully as the B-29 strained, carrying them as far from ground zero as possible.

The strident electronic scream ceased abruptly, fifteen seconds after the drop. The bomb’s first fuse had armed. The second, a barometric fuse, was to arm when the bomb reached two thousand feet. Then everything would depend on the radar fuse, set to detonate the bomb after the nineteenth reflection from the ground, forty-three seconds after the drop.

Larry rolled the bomber out of the punishing turn. He thought about putting on the goggles again but decided he was safe with the target behind them. The next forty-three seconds seemed like an eternity. The only sound came from the four Wright Cyclones carrying them, hopefully, toward safety. Larry felt as if something unknown, something dangerous was about to spring on them and tear the giant bomber from the sky, scattering them all to their deaths.

He checked his watch. Fifteen seconds to go. He counted to himself, reached fifteen and continued on. His heart was in his throat. He reached twenty and started to worry.

“Major Best?” came a voice over his shoulder.

Larry glanced back. Commander Morris held his goggles in his hand. Larry had to swallow twice before he could answer. “Yes?” he croaked.

“I believe we have a problem.”

“What?” Larry asked, knowing the answer but not daring to state it.

“I think it’s a dud. Tell the others to keep their goggles on, but the bomb has already reached the ground. Something kept it from going off.”

Larry spoke into the intercom. “Listen up. Keep the glasses on until I say otherwise.” He flicked off the switch and turned. “What happened, John?”

“How should I know!” snapped Morris in an uncharacteristic fit of pique. “Could be almost anything! All I know is it was working when it left the plane. The timer delay worked, so I guess it was one of the other fuses or a wiring failure — perhaps wind buffeting broke something loose on the way down.”

“But that thing’s built like a battleship.”

The older man bristled. “I know that! I’m the one that put it together!” He paused. “I don’t know what happened! Maybe we can recover it after the war and find out. But until then...”

Larry felt sweat break out in his armpits as he thought about the colonel back on Tinian. “The Old Man will have my head for this! And if he doesn’t, General LeMay will!” He saw John cringe.

The weaponeer uttered a sharp curse. “I know, I know! But we followed the book all the way. That bomb was working when we dropped it! The brass can make of that whatever they want.” He looked down. “There are two more bombs on Tinian. Maybe the other missions will have better luck.”

“I hope so,” Larry said, but somehow it wasn’t any consolation. “Maybe the Hiroshima flight will go better.” Then the utter frustration of it all hit him. “But I wanted this to work! Hitting the Jap high command was our best shot for a quick surrender — I know it!”

John shrugged. “Yeah, I agree.”

He keyed the intercom. “OK, everybody, you can remove your goggles now.”

Larry could almost feel the cloak of secrecy gathering around them as the Little Brown Jug flew through the beautiful morning. Sam Owens stepped away from the radar and joined his boss. Larry couldn’t help but notice the mixture of fear and confusion. He could tell something was really bothering Sam. Anger flashed over him. This junior officer wasn’t the one that was going to get hit by this mess.

“Do you have something to say?” Larry snapped.

The young man looked at his boss as if for guidance.

“I asked you a question, Lieutenant!”

“Sir, I was watching the scope. We started the run before we reached the IP. The bomb landed short.”

Cliff Haynes charged onto the flight deck, fire in his eyes. “I did no such thing!” he shouted, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. “We hit the IP right on the money!”

Sam backed away a little, but a look of determination came to his eyes. “No, sir! We hadn’t reached it when you announced it.”

“What do you know about it? I’m the bombardier, not you!”

“Cliff, that’s enough,” Larry intervened.

“But, sir, this idiot’s insulted me!”

“I said that’s enough! We’ve got enough to worry about without getting in a fight. Calm down. We’ve got a long flight back to Tinian.”

He sneaked a glance back at Sam. The young lieutenant was looking at the deck. For some strange reason, Larry wondered if the young naval officer might be right. He sighed. It really didn’t matter — not now.

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